And On a Rainy Night
by saoulbete
Summary: It's the soft pitter pat of the rain outside, and the ever increasing intensity of the storm. PWP.


A/N yep. Another Jeeves and Wooster fic pulled off an old LJ. I do have to thank said LJ for pointing me to old pics of my old house that was torn down after I moved out. This is purple prose, and nothing more. Enjoy.

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The sound of a toilet flushing barely registers somewhere in the back of his mind, but he pays it no heed. It's just another background noise on top of the soft lullaby of the pitter-pat of rain against the window. The feeling of the bed dipping beside him, and the warmth of another body pressed against his, it stirs a small contended smile from his lips, but he does not wake. When he is slowly roused out of slumber, it's to a path of lazy, light kisses across his back-trailing from one shoulder blade to the next, seemingly more for the lips that are tracing them than for him. He is not awake yet, not fully, and it is in this half-slumber that he allows a sigh of pleasure to slip free, one that would not have been roused from him had he been awake enough to regain his legendary self-control.

The lips that are currently lingering over that one bone in the back of his neck-the one right at the top of his spine that juts out, normally hidden by shirt collars-curl into a smile, and he leans into the warm embrace, the hand resting gently on his abdomen, the knees that are tucked into the backs of his. He feels his lover's cock twitch against his back, not so much a lustful move as it is a reminder of the acts that led to this lazy pre-dawn moment. A culmination of years of emotions left to bubble below the surface, of passion stuffed away and repressed exploding forth in a flurry of hands and the destruction of items sartorial. He feels the answering stir in his own prick at the memories, but taps it down, wanting to enjoy this moment without the red-hot haze of passion clouding things. Still, he cannot help but gasp when deft pianist's fingers gently graze across it, a soft caress. "Jeeves," the word is more a soft brush of air past his ear, the soft breeze of a summer's day.

"Five more minutes," He mumbles mostly-incoherently into the pillow, not wanting the real world to intrude on this wonderful moment. "I'm dreaming." The answering chuckle is enough to bring him closer to consciousness, and his eyes squeeze tight, hoping that by avoiding opening them, then all this will not disappear, that that hand will be right _there_ again, and he can lay there forever, wrapped up in this sort of supreme happiness that has overtaken him.

"What of?" The lips have broken from where they've gently been nibbling and sucking at his neck long enough to form those two syllables, before returning to their task, and he arches his neck, providing a seemingly endless line of flesh that seemingly pleads to be tasted.

"You." The cock that had previously only given a flitter was now rather insistently pressing against him, and the slight pinch of teeth at a spot behind his ear that made him shiver cause one eye to slowly crack awake, and it takes him a moment to realize why he knows the night table he's staring at. He's never seen it from this angle before, and it slowly dawns on him that this is real, and the thought of it-or perhaps its the way that those hips are rocking maddeningly slow against him-draws a moan.

"I had to wake you. I didn't believe this was real." It's a soothing thought, that he is not the only one to not believe his fortune, a pleasing one, that his lover believes this to be as much of a fantasy as he does. "You looked so -" There's a pause, a search for the right word, and before he can suggest one, out of habit, he's cut off, "Perfect. I couldn't help myself."

"Please." It's one word, but it's all that needs to be said. It's nothing and everything, all at once. Neither know what it's asking for, and they know exactly what is needed. He can't help the slight gasp at cold, well-oiled fingers slowly sliding through his cleft, and he wonders briefly if his lover is always this demanding, this forward.

And then those teeth are latching on to _that_ spot behind his ear again, and he's not entirely sure if that was the sharp peal of thunder he hears, or if it's the sound of blood rushing through his body, and he presses back into the long body behind him, feeling one finger slip inside him. It's a new feeling, different, but not wholly unwelcome. He's never been on this side of things before, but there's so much _rightness_ in the touch of his lover's fingers against his skin, he feels as though it's the most familiar thing in the world, as though this was the only thing they were made to do, and that everything else was just biding time until they found themselves here together.

He feels another finger slip inside, and the question of where his lover became quite so skilled at this springs to mind, but then those fingers find a spot inside of him that makes him see stars. He's found that spot in his past encounters, but never had it touched in him, and suddenly he _knows_ why his past encounters were so willing-so long as there was the steady in-and-out against just _there_ he would agree to anything. Before long, his hips are moving of their own will, backing into every stroke, and he hears his lover's breathy chuckle. "You're so bally tight." The words are a simple statement, an observation, and they elicit a groan from both parties.

"I've never-" The words are quiet, surprisingly bashful, and at first he doesn't thing his lover heard them at all, but that hand shifts slightly, and he's seeing stars of pleasure.

"Never what?" He's trying to find the proper word to describe this, but those fingers are hitting all the right spots again, and then they're gone leaving his hips thrusting backwards attempting to find them again. "Been on the proper end of a good fucking?" The words, so callous and crass sound out of place and oh so right coming out of that mouth, generally so polite, so gentlemanly, now being used such. His lover leans across him to kiss him soundly, and he knows the slightly shock at the words is still showing on his face. Kiss-swollen lips curve into a grin that could only be described as "wicked", or perhaps, maybe, "lascivious" before ducking down to nibble at the hollow of his throat. "If you'd rather switch, however-" He can hear the slight note of begging, of need, of want in his lover's voice, and for a moment, he's tempted to roll them both and take control, but instead he settles on to his back, and pulls his lover, his keeper, his _everything _on top of him.

"Oh, Jeeves-" They share another kiss, and he can feel something rather blunter than fingers pressing against him, and his legs fall open of their own accord. He lifts up on command, and finds the pillow beneath his hips to be rather comfortable. It goes slowly, a centimeter at a time, until he can feel his lover's sac pressing against him, until they are nose to nose, as close as it is possible for them to be, and he leans up, swallowing those perfect lips in a searing, bruising kiss. _This_ he thinks, before his lover shifts ever so slightly and halts all thoughts, _is heaven._ "You, this-i can't believe it's real." The same thoughts are running through his mind, and have been since he was so pleasantly awoken moments before.

"It is." Is all he can reply. He'd like to be able to express himself in sonnets, in long flowering phrases attesting to how wonderful this all is, but he finds that the power of higher thought has disappeared, leaving him to baser instincts. He's rewarded with a grin that spreads from ear to ear before those lips once again press against his own. There's one long thrust-slow and easy, but completely unshy, unwavering, gentle but unyielding, and it draws forth a sound that rumbles from deep inside of him, some primal part of him that went back to some ancestor that Sir Darwin could have only hoped to find.

He had seen his other _liasons _laid out much as he was, but had always believed the look of exquisite pleasure on their faces to have been an act-a show, put on, not unlike women were wont to do-that there was no possible way for things to feel better than how he felt thrusting into them, but now he knew that his visage bore that same look. Another thrust, and another, and each one was brushing over all the right spots. The fingers of one hand are clutched tightly around the bedsheets, the fingers of the other attempting to find purchase on the slippery smooth skin of a gracefully sinewed back. His own back arched, and his hips rocked back in time with each stroke, a maddeningly slow, but decidedly forceful pace, each thrust driving deep and hard into him before pulling out nearly completely. "Wanted...this...so...long." The words are gasped between thrusts, it's taking all of his lover's might not to take him fast and hard.

Words are beyond him at this point, the only thing he is aware of is the white-hot bliss, the pure pleasure of the whole thing, and his only response is to run his hand up to his lover's neck, pulling down so that they can meet it a clashing kiss, tongues sliding each other in a pantomime version of how they're joined in regions south. "Oh, Jeeves-" The words are repeated, as though a chant, with every stroke, slowly but surely increasing in tempo. "Love you so much."

Again, his lover's past comes to his mind. He believes the words, he knows them to be true, but they ring falser in his ears to hear them in a moment as such. He wonders how many others have lain in this bed, how many others have heard that gasping cry. But each stroke is hitting just _there_ and the concern dies on his lips. It doesn't matter how many other men his lover has taken, if they are the reason that his lover is able to do _that _then he is grateful to them. He feels lips and teeth around one nipple, nibbling and sucking, and all of the tension in his body is pooled in one spot, tensed and coiled and so ready to break free. He moves one hand towards his own straining erection, and his lover captures it by the wrist, pinning it above his head. "Sir-" The admonishing look he receives reminds him of the compromise they had reached the night before, "Bertram, _please_."

He's never begged before, not like this. There's never been that needy note in his tone, his head has never thrashed wildly on the pillows as every moment of pleasure threatened to cross the border into overstimulation. But now, under his lover's skillful touch, he finds himself not caring about the loss of dignity. His lover breaks at his plea, the slow tempo picking up in pace, from a moderate adagio up to lively adante. He braces himself, expecting pain from the way that his lover's prick is driving so forcefully into him, but finds only pleasure instead. He tries to match his lover's pace, to rock back into every stroke to be taken as deeply as possible, but his own rhythm falters, and he's reduced to gasping, writhing pants, and wanting nothing more than to come, as he knows it'll be harder than he ever has before.

He strains against where his lover is holding his right wrist fast, his left hand attempting to slide between them, only to be caught and pinned above his head. "Just a little bit longer, love." He swears his lover is the devil incarnate, as surely having to endure this for longer is more horrible than anything that Torquemada has ever done. He's straining, and gasping, and utterly _lost_ to the feeling of his lover inside of him, and he manages to break one arm free to pull his lover's mouth to his, attempting to muffle the sounds of his passion. Always, on top, he had been a quiet man, taking his pleasure silently, but he finds that these noises now were being pulled from him, rather against his will.

His lover's rhythm falters, and he feels, finally, a hand on his prick. At the touch, it's like a million volts of electricity running through him, and suddenly, despite the predawn shades of blue, he can see clearly,as though it were daylight, or perhaps that's a bolt of lightning outside, but he can clearly see his lover's neck, arched so, each sinew straining out against the skin, a look of utter bliss on that perfect face,and if the touch wasn't enough to undo him, that sight certain is, and his climax thunders out of him, taking with it, he's sure, his inner organs.

He's not sure how much longer it is before he's into the land of conscious thought again, but when he returns, it's to his lover sprawled across his chest, and he's greeted by a broad grin. "I thought I killed you." He can't help the slight chuckle-he's so relaxed, so at ease, his normal boundaries had evaporated sometime in the past six hours.

"Only the little death." It's a weak play-on-words, but he finds himself incapable at the moment of any better response.

"You enjoyed it then? Being on the other side of things?"

"Very much so." The question that has been plaguing him sprang back to his mind, and tumbles out of his mouth before he could check it. "Where did you learn-"

"All of that?" His lover supplied. "It's amazing what one gets from a public school education these days." He raised one eyebrow, and his lover kissed him, gently, soothingly. "I love you." There's a hint of trepidation in the words, and he returns the kiss gently, soothingly. He can see the hint of fear in his lover's eyes as the kiss breaks, the expectancy, and he realizes that his lover is waiting on him, expecting a response.

He's never said the words before, and he's not even sure what the feeling is. He's always believed that it was something created only for poets to talk about, a false emotion, but, he supposes, if love was wanting to spend the rest of his life waking up like this, to soft blue eyes, and his lover wrapped against him, then it's the closest thing to what love is supposed to be. The words are still hard for him to form however, having lived a life swearing against them. "I-love you." Once they're out though, once they've first been mentioned, they're easier, the barrier has been broken, and the words pour forth. "I love you." He repeats, kissing those soft, pink lips. "I love you." He rolls them, and kisses the tip of a sloped nose. "I love you." It's a mantra, repeated between each soft kiss placed first on one eyelid, than the other. It's whispered, breathily, against the shell of his lover's ear, and he feels the answering shiver.

"No matter what? You don't mind that I've well-that there's been others?"

"What's past is past." He replies, rolling on his side, pulling his lover tightly to him, not caring at the way their stomachs are sticking together. It's strangely intimate, in a way he'd never thought possible, being so comfortable around someone to care nothing for looking his best. His lover nestles against his chest, he feels, more than hears his lover's response.

"'S'good to know." He smiles contentedly, resting his chin on the nest of blonde curls. He's not entirely sure of what love is, but he's fairly sure that if this isn't it, it's certainly the next best thing.


End file.
